Mia Sings Herself To Sleep by beingabletobreathe, literature
Literature
Mia Sings Herself To Sleep
Mias beautiful red hair shines in any sun light. It frames her face perfectly. Swaying softly when she runs and curling up at the very ends. Her breath taking features smile up at me from her angelic, little face. She is the smallest piece of heaven I have ever seen. Blue eyes glisten and glow while they watch me walk away. They out do the sun when Im coming closer. She runs to me on little feet and jumps into my arms with enormous joy. Her delicate arms wrap around my scruffy, worn neck. Pulling me close in the most unforgettable hug I have ever gotten from any girl. Her two year old legs tightly encircle my waist and hold me as
'It's Okay, I Understand.' by beingabletobreathe, literature
Literature
'It's Okay, I Understand.'
It had never really crossed my mind. I never mumbled to myself how misunderstood I was. I never lost
sleep over someone or everyone just not getting it. I never wallowed in self pity wondering why it never
clicked with anyone else. And perhaps that is because I never had to. Of course I wasn't always
understood. No one is. But I had the next best thing. I had someone who tried. Someone who took the
time to not only look, but see. I didn't spend my days searching high and low for someone who truly got
me and everything I was. But that night, whether I'd been looking or not, it found me.
"It's okay, I understand."
All t
My dad doesn't pay me any attention. Oh, poor kid, another wasted individual with daddy issues. I know how it seems. And you're probably right. There isn't anything special about me. No sad story except that I am here, and nobody wants me. My mother is a beautiful woman, and I know she tries to love me. She tries so hard. I know she sees my art work. A talent my father gave me, no doubt. She sees my grades and my great decisions. Trying to live up to Dad's history is tough, but I do my best. I'm rarely out of line. And I know she tries to smile at me and touch my shoulder often enough to make me feel it. She tries to remember talent shows an
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder by beingabletobreathe, literature
Literature
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder
When I was little, it use to amaze me how colors were made. In art class I would sit and mix paint because blue and red didn't stay the same when they fell in love. Every single color found its match and danced beautifully as I swirled them together. Black and white were my favorites. I'd pour the creamy paint into a bowl and watch as black and white swirls, turned into grey swirls and owned the container holding it captive. Grey was amazing to me. Because black and white are nothing alike, and grey is in the middle. Black is dark and scary and demanding. And white is graceful, and trusting, and clean. Grey is nothing. Grey is bland. And safe